“Never mind, Phil—really, I don't care about it. You surprised me so tremendously that I fear I've ruined it. Now I shall have to write another.”
“Fiddlesticks! Send it as it is. The prince will blame the postoffice people,” cried he.
“It is not for the prince,” she cried, quickly, and then became more confused than ever. “Come to the house, Phil. You must tell me how you happen to be here.”
As they walked slowly to the Garrison home and mounted the steps, she religiously held the epistle where he could not regard it too closely should his curiosity overcome his prudence. They were ushered into the reception room, and she directed the footman to ask if Mrs. Garrison could see Mr. Quentin.
“Now, tell me all about it,” she said, taking a chair quite across the big room.
“There's nothing to tell,” he said. “I am in Brussels, and I thought I'd hunt you up.”
“But why didn't you write or wire me that you were coming? You haven't acted much like a friend,” she said, pointedly.
“Perhaps I wrote and never mailed the letter. Remember your experience just now. You still hold the unlucky note in your hand. Sometimes we think better of our intentions at the very instant when they are going into effect. It is very mysterious to me that you wouldn't mail that letter. I can only believe that you changed your mind when you saw me.”
“How absurd! As if seeing you could have anything to do with it!”
“You ought to tell me if my appearance here is liable to alter any plan that letter is intended to perfect. Don't let me be an inconvenience. You know I'd rather be anything than an inconvenience.”